


Jenny of Blackwater

by jessejackal



Series: Jenny of Blackwater [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sexual Coercion, Young Arthur Morgan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 19:12:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19026166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessejackal/pseuds/jessejackal
Summary: This was his job, and a good, solid lead, and if it weren’t for Micah tagging along at Dutch’s insistence that he take someone with him, Arthur would be back in camp by now, sleeping in his tent with a full stomach and finally, something to shut damn Marston up with.Instead he’s lying in the dirt, drunk off his ass, with this fucking lizard.





	Jenny of Blackwater

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place somewhere before the Blackwater job. Everyone's age is the same except for Arthur, who's 20 in this AU.

A ghost of wind and bullets is rushing in his ears hours after the mess. It wasn’t exactly his fault, but all his anger is drowned in relief that he got out of it alive.

They are stuck in northern West Elizabeth now, miles from camp, waiting out the heat. And, as uncommon it is in Micah’s company, day drinking is their way to pass the time well into the late evening.

Arthur sways on his feet slightly, world taking a usual pleasant tilt, like it always does when he’s pleasantly on the way to getting wasted. He is coming back to their small fire from the creek. Took a break to both cool down and wash the sweat off his face and neck, and water the horses on his way back.

Baylock is timid, knackered after the long dash across the plains. Arthur’s own Boadicea less so; her deep chestnut coat seems to only have deepened in color after the exertion. But today still weighs on them. Arthur, despite being unsteady, handles both of them nicely as they pay each other no mind.

Unfortunately, the same can’t be said about him and Micah.

Leaving the horses to graze near their camping spot, Arthur stumbles back. Literally stumbles through the dry grass and rocks. Micah laughs like it’s the funniest thing, and Arthur, not knowing how to act around that, laughs at himself too, plopping down on his bedroll once he’s close enough to simply let himself fall.

Micah snorts, takes another swig from his whiskey bottle—they’re making quick work of it, the two of them—and settles back into his mood of staring at the flames.

Arthur thinks the bastard looks too peaceful for someone who just dragged both of them through hell and screwed up a job over pettiness. They mostly bit at each other until things calmed down somewhat, and then Micah promptly shut Arthur up with a beverage offering. Against his better judgement, Arthur accepted, if only to take the edge off after the gunfight and the mad dash.

He is drifting off when Micah nudges him again, shoving the bottle in his face, “Finish this, kid,” he says, and Arthur can’t tell if he sounds patronizing or disgusted or calculating or maybe all of these things, all at once.

Arthur groans, swats his hand away, “‘M too drunk.”

“I _said_ , _finish this_ , kid,” Micah insists, and Arthur’s blood boils from hearing that piece of shit go off in his usual manner after the stunt he pulled today.

“You know what?” He jumps to his feet, heart hammering in his ears. “Go to hell, Micah! You think I’m over—”

“Got a temper there, ain’t ya?” Micah smirks.

Arthur sees red.

He lunges at him, knocks him off the log and onto his back, and gets a kick in the ribs for his efforts. Micah flips him over effortlessly, slaps him on the shoulder, and pushes him away.

The bastard is laughing again, but Arthur is too dazed to try that again.

“Fuck you,” is all he can muster.

They stare each other down, Arthur fuming, Micah glowing.

“Christ, I still don’t get why the fuck Dutch’d keep your around—all you do is cause damn trouble for all of us, like today when I had every—”

“Well, your Pappy ain’t here to solve your little problem, boy,” Micah says over him, and before Arthur’s hazy mind can react, he has him face down in the grass, pinning his right hand behind his back. Arthur groans and kicks and tastes grass in his mouth, but the bastard only eases the pressure once he feels the fight drain out of Arthur. “That’s a good boy,” he mocks him, and Arthur damn near bites through his lip with embarrassment.

“ _Blow off_ ,” he growls.

Miraculously, Micah lets go. He takes a few stumbling steps back, spurs catching in the dirt and a stupid smirk across his face. “Can’t be takin’ out all your fuck-ups on me, cowpoke.” He raises his palms in a placating gesture, still smirking down at Arthur. “Better thank me you ain’t got a hole in—”

“That was my job! You damn screwed it up, everything was goin’ well until you couldn’t keep it in your pa—  _dammit_ , three hundred goddamn dollars, Micah!” God, Arthur feels like he might actually cry over this. This was his job, and a good, solid lead, and if it weren’t for Micah tagging along at Dutch’s insistence that he take someone with him, Arthur would be back in camp by now, sleeping in his tent with a full stomach and finally, something to shut damn Marston up with.

Instead he’s lying in the dirt, drunk off his ass, with this fucking lizard.

“It was a set-up, you goddamn child,” Micah says dismissively, snorts, takes a swig of the whiskey, offers him the bottle again. “I saved your life. You’re welcome, kid.”

It was no damn set-up. Arthur knows about those, Hosea let him run one to get the lesson ingrained on the inside of his skull. Arthur isn’t stupid, and he knows it was a good damn job. Not too easy, not too good, but a solid lead to prove himself with.

He bites his tongue. He’s too drunk and too tired and too acquainted with Micah Bell. He snatches the bottle, chugs the rest of its contents in one go, and throws it over his shoulder.

Coughs in his elbow, too, the gesture fueling Bell’s amusement.

“Need somethin’ to wash that down, kid?”

“Blow off.”

“Really? I hoped you were bein’ serious with this, Morgan,” Micah says, and there’s already another bottle of booze in his hand. Why he has two tucked away in his saddlebag when he’s going on a job, Arthur doesn’t know. A small corner of his mind knows something’s off - feels something is amiss - but he’s too drunk to really notice or care.

“You playin’ chicken with me, Micah?” he slurs, eyeing the bottle. It’s rum, this time, and he had no idea Micah even drank rum.

Then again, with the state they’re in, he might drink anything that burns.

At least Arthur would.

“C’mon, share one more with me!” Micah exclaims and moves closer.

Arthur rolls his eyes. Takes the first swig—and it’s good, surprisingly good— sweet, too, but that feels right on his tongue. His reaction must have shown on his face as Micah narrows his eyes at him in that way he does, almost studying if it weren’t so brief, and nods then.

“Dutch got himself a connoisseur here. Livin’ in a tent, eatin’ beans half the time, and yet look at this.”

Arthur is lost on Micah’s words somewhere past the first few sounds. His attention locks on the land ahead of him instead. Boadicea is munching down on the grass. Off-mindedly, Arthur thinks he really should do something about the grain rations for the horses; something he read about in a book Hosea gave him a couple weeks ago.

He snaps out of it when Micah puts a hand on his knee. Irked, he reaches for the bottle. Micah passes it to him, but doesn’t remove the hand. Arthur takes a careful gulp, his insides suddenly feeling cold and almost—slimy, despite the heat and the ghostly feel of the chase and the bullets flying.

Arthur moves to scoot farther away, but the fingers dig into his knee. “What the hell,” he musters, suddenly losing all control of his voice.

“Don’t be stupid, kid.”

“I’m not bein’—”

“Saved you from bein’ shot, from embarrassing yourself in front your whole _family_ , and you still can’t put your trust in me, huh?” Micah says, almost croons, leaning into Arthur’s space.

He tries to move away only to have a hand snatch at his wrist. He doesn’t drop the bottle because Hosea would kill—would have, at some point, killed him for dropping a bottle— and his heart is hammering in his chest, stopping all other thought.

“Not for one second,” he says finally, once the words catch up to him, maybe a good minute after Micah asked him.

“Can’t believe you’re like that,” Micah says, taking the rum from him. “You know, I’ve been with your gang a what? Four, five months now? And all I see is you take, take, take, kiddo—the Armadillo job, and then you dropping out for a weak with that cold of yours—”

“I’m—” Dutch always tells people to pull their weight. But he never told Arthur that. Arthur thought— Arthur _does_. He pulls his weight, he does a lot, so many things—work with the horses, scouting ahead, the donation box—

“—Hosea mollycoddling you for a whole two weeks. And this job, me, somehow that’s all taken for granted? And all you can do is be petty over the little things. Like a damn child, and when I come for your rescue it’s as things should be, but the second somethin’s needed of _you_ —Arthur Morgan- _turned-twenty-last-week_  is too high and mighty to have himself bothered—”

“Ain’t fuckin’ like that,” Arthur croaks. He’s still boiling, but is mostly spent by this point. This—this ain’t like that, and it’s not like it was his fault he caught that damn cold out of nowhere, Jack and him did, the two damn kids of the camp.

Is he coddled? Is he really not doing enough?

The job was good—it’s Micah who ruined it. Stalled the hold-up, bickered with the coach's guard who almost blew Arthur's head off with his shotgun. Got them caught up with a band of bounty hunters conveniently passing by when the shooting started.

The grip on his wrist must have left a bruise by now. Micah lets go, the sound of him swallowing more of the booze clear in the night. He shoves the rum Arthur’s way again, puts the bottleneck to his lips and tilts, awkwardly. Arthur spits and spills rum over his shirt. Micah growls.

“Now look what you done, spillin’ good liquor like that.” It’s low and dangerous, and Arthur has a strong urge to reach for the revolver on his hip.

He doesn’t, and Micah pushes him, tosses him onto his bedroll, and it’s just now that his earlier unease clicks in Arthur’s head. There’s no voicing it; it’s just his heart, stopping, as he finally gets it.

There’s a clank of the forgotten glass and the creaking of the fire and Arthur’s grunts as he fights to get Micah off him. Bastard has a vice grip on him, on both his wrists now.

“What’re you _doing_ —” the words are stuck in his throat. Micah isn’t looking at him, at least not at his face, anyway, as they’re caught in this small scramble.

“Is that you playin’ an idiot or takin’ me for an idiot? Pretty sure both you and Marston know exactly what you were gettin’ on with…”

Arthur’s face flushes hot as the images flash in his memory. Yeah, they were drunk off their asses too, and no, it _wasn’t_ like that. Just another of their usual squabbles and they started kissing out of nowhere, rolling in the dust, before John's brain caught up with his hands. Arthur had a black eye for a week after that particular encounter.

“Like I said, an exercise in trust and doing your part,” Micah continues.

“You never said that,” Arthur croaks. And again, too slow to realize the moment, he finds himself on his front, face in the rugged cloth, his hips in the air. Micah’s let go of his hands. Arthur can’t even clench a fist. His body doesn’t feel right, and it’s not just alcohol, it’s like all his will drained and he’s nailed to the spot.

“Maybe. But I meant that.”

Micah undoes Arthur’s suspenders, rides his shirt up, tugs at his pants. Arthur buries his face in the fabric of his bedroll.

This isn’t—

This isn’t how he wanted—

 _Not how he wanted this to happen._ Not in the middle of nowhere, after a job failed, drunk and scared. He feels bile and alcohol in his throat for a second before swallowing, thinking about Micah goddamn Bell taking his clothes off.

“I’ll make it feel good, cowboy,” he says.

Arthur expects—he expects anything, but he doesn’t expect a slick finger in his ass. He hisses, and he guesses the slick eases the process but it feels goddamn bad.

He can feel Micah’s jacket touching his skin. Feels something in his chest drop, realizing Micah is fully clothed and Arthur’s exposed the way he is, pants around his ankles and shirt almost covering his head. The patch of fabric is wet under his cheek. Arthur shuts his eyes, bites his lip—just to wait it out, just to let it pass.

Micah doesn’t hurt him exactly, except it still hurts a whole lot. Arthur feels more fingers, and he hears Micah’s say something. The sound of his voice doesn’t turn into anything meaningful. Arthur’s glad—he doesn’t think he can take any more humiliation.

Then the fingers leave him and Micah unbuckles his belt, lets his damn holsters fall to the ground.

And this time it’s as bad as Arthur expected. Painful and fucking blinding, and he cries out and curls his right hand into a fist and bites it and tries to move away.

Micah pushes at his lower back with a free hand, and he shushes him, and kisses his damn neck and down his spine. He’s moving, and it’s good that he spared Arthur and used a slick—or maybe he spared himself, because the stretching is bad enough with it.

Despite all that, Arthur feels heat in his lower stomach and his cock starting to throb. He grunts when biting into his fist isn’t enough. And then Micah’s moving, and Arthur can’t help it—it’s too much. His chest constricts, locking up, and he has to remember to breathe.

Getting lightheaded, Arthur buries a hand in his own hair and startles, almost, when Micah grabs it with his own. Micah is speeding up, making noises that make Arthur feel like the filthiest damn whore in the state.

And all too soon Micah is stilling, his fingers are digging into Arthur’s skin as he comes, pushes Arthur to the side like he’s a rag doll, and tucks himself back in his pants. Makes a meal out of putting his gun belt back in place, too.

Arthur tugs his pants back up first thing. He’s shivering, breath hot and wet in his clogged nose, head still swimming from the liquor. Done with the clothes, he puts one hand around his knees. Doesn’t tuck them to his chest; feels too sore to do that.

Micah is rummaging with his saddlebag, looking like nothing happened but still smug, the way he always looks. Snaps his head up after a minute, smirks again. “What you’re givin’ me the stink eye for, kid?”

“Nothin’,” Arthur’s too quick to say.

Micah hems, tosses the bag aside, and settles into his bedroll.

***

“You good, Morgan?” John asks him the next day.

Micah has explained how the job went to Dutch. Arthur saw Dutch shake his head while they talked. Hosea was sitting not far from them, newspaper in hand, looking sour.

Arthur didn’t really know how to deal with that, so he hid in his tent and hoped everyone assumed it was because his lead didn’t pan out— fearing Miss Grimshaw or Dutch or Hosea might barge in at any minute to yell at him for slacking off after he’d just let them down.

Arthur is nursing his hangover and yesterday’s sores in his narrow cot. To his relief it’s John who checks on him first.

He doesn’t know what to tell him. It’s all written all over him—his ass hurts, his back, too, the damn bones in his wrists, and his head aches like never before. He just started getting hangovers a couple months ago, and so far, today’s the worst one he’s had.

Only hoping he doesn’t look as beaten up as he feels, Arthur says, not putting much thought into it, “I’m fine.”

John stands over him for a moment, arms crossed on his chest. Arthur doesn’t dare look at his face.

“Sounded like a good lead,” John says finally, like he’s regretting the job blew up. Or like he’s regretting something, at least.

“Yeah. It was.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Katie for editing this story!🖤
> 
> Thank you for reading! I appreciate every comment I get.


End file.
